In These Black Days
by Carol
Summary: As Sam contemplates Stanford, Dean is seriously injured during the preparation for an important hunt.  Will John and Sam be able to save Dean's life?  Will Sam make the right choice for his future? Pre-series, hurt!Dean,  fatherly and brotherly h/c
1. Hard Life to Love

**In These Black Days**

**By Carol M.**

**Summary: As Sam contemplates Stanford, Dean is seriously injured during the preparation for an important hunt. Will John and Sam be able to save Dean's life? Will Sam make the right choice for his future? Pre-series, hurt!Dean, fatherly, brotherly and later, Bobberly h/c**

**Disclaimer: Don't own them, only love them**

**Spoilers: Pre-series**

**Enjoy!**

**Part One…Hard Life to Love**

"Tent, sleeping bags, lantern? Dad, this is like full on camping gear," Dean said from shotgun as he glanced over the list John had handed him.

John quirked an eyebrow as he pulled the Impala into the dusty parking lot of Duke's Sports and Things. "Yeah…so?"

"So…I hate camping."

Sam could relate. He seemed to hate everything these days, especially if it involved hunting or dare he even think it, his family. "I thought we were hunting a witch?" he murmured from his folded up position in the backseat, barely able to contain his annoyance.

"We are," answered John in a tone that acknowledged Sam's whine and effectively shut it down, all in one breath. "She happens to live at the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Twice a year, on the day of her son's birthday and on the day of his death, she comes down from the mountain, kidnaps three local kids and burns them alive, just like the town did to her son. Her son's birthday is in two months. That should give us plenty of time to track her down and dispose of her before she has a chance to snatch any more kids."

"How do we kill her?" Sam asked.

"I'm working on that," John said. "Her circumstances are…unique. Most likely, we'll have to burn her alive."

"Sounds toasty," Dean remarked, glancing over the list again. "Fifty boxes of ammo? You just said we were probably torching her?"

"We're running low."

A glob of irritation tore through Sam's gut. "How we supposed to pay for all of this? We've got thirty bucks and a credit card with a five hundred dollar limit."

Dean turned and flashed his pearly whites. "Aw come on, Sammy, a little shoplifting never hurt anyone."

"It's stealing, Dean. It's not right."

John caught his eye in the rearview mirror. "Until they start doling out salaries for hunters, you're gonna have to accept a little moral ambiguity, son." He eased the Impala to a stop at the front door of the store. "Meet out here in an hour."

Dean obediently got out of the car, but Sam lingered, staring at the back of his father's neck. "Where you gonna be?"

John nodded down the street. "Body shop across the way. We're going to be in the middle nowhere for a few days. Wanna make sure she doesn't conk out on us and leave us stranded."

"Whatever." Sam bashed the front seat up and got out of the car to join Dean.

"You boys make sure you get everything on the list," John said in a stern tone.

Dean nodded. "We got it, sir."

Sam didn't respond, instead he miserably shoved his hands in his pockets, wanting nothing to do with any of it.

"You hear me Sam? It's important," John shot him a look.

"Yeah, yeah, it's always important," Sam mumbled, barely able to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

"What was that?"

"We can handle it, dad," Sam said through teeth gritted so hard his jaw cramped up.

"An hour Sammy…one hour."

John backed the car away and Sam watched as the Impala turned into traffic, heading for a body shop that was a few blocks down. Sam's hands sunk deeper into his pockets, the fingers of his right hand brushing against a piece of paper that had been burning a hole in the back pocket of his jeans for the better part of a week. It was a letter Bobby had handed over to him on a recent visit. Bobby had eyed him strangely when he had given him the envelope, but hadn't asked any questions.

He'd been accepted into Stanford. Scholarships would cover tuition, room and board and a part time job would aid in any incidentals he would need. All that stood between him and a new life was the letter of acceptance acknowledging that he would indeed be attending Stanford in the fall. It was the check of a box and his signature. Not an alias either. His real signature. Samuel Winchester.

"Dude, you sightseeing or something?" Dean shouted, interrupting his train of thought.

Sam felt a sudden stab of guilt and let his fingers fall from his pocket. "Right behind you, man."

Forty five minutes later, Sam was pushing a shopping cart filled to the brim with camping supplies while Dean was busy stuffing all of his available pockets with boxes upon boxes of bullets.

"Dude, that's enough," said Sam, noting the suspicious looks they were getting from the locals, who all seemed to fifty and over dressed in the same drab green jackets, dirty camo pants and brown boots while he and Dean stood out like damn tropical fish out of water with their baby faces and colored flannels, jeans and leather jackets, which wasn't at all helpful when you were trying to blend and commit acts of thievery. He stepped closer to Dean, trying to block him from view as Dean continued to shove bullets in his coat. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

"You can never have too many bullets, Sammy." Dean squeezed one last box into his jacket pocket.

"You sound just like dad," Sam said in a sarcastic tone as the brothers hauled their load towards the front of the store.

"I'm gonna do you a favor and take that as a compliment." Dean flashed him a stern look as he struggled to keep under wraps all of the boxes of bullets hidden in his clothes.

"You take it however you want," Sam said as he approached the counter in a huff.

A burly, bearded man of about fifty dressed in the same drab uniform as everybody else eyed them suspiciously from behind the counter, looking at both of them as if they were aliens. "How may I help you boys?" the man asked in a tone that clearly stated he wanted nothing to do with either one of them and definitely didn't want to help them.

Dean sauntered to the counter, motioning to the cart of supplies. "We'll take all of this." He eyed a display of beef jerky next to the register and picked up a handful, letting them fall all over the counter. "These too." He took one of the packages of beefy jerky and tore it open with his teeth, taking a huge bite.

Sam inwardly cringed at Dean's smartass in your face antics wishing that he would just cool the hell out and not play the wisecracking outlaw. Frankly, Sam just wasn't in the mood. Especially when Dean was stuffed to the gills with stolen merchandise.

Burly eyed them up and down, his nostrils flaring in and out like he was a bull. "Nice jacket," he said to Dean, eyeing the beat up leather coat.

Dean beamed with pride. "It's my dad's."

"You boys aren't from around here, are you?"

"What was your first clue, Paul Bunyan?" Dean smirked.

Paul's gaze drifted to the cart filled with supplies, eyeing the guns and knives and tent shoved inside. "Just what you plan on doing with all that?"

"We're gonna bake a cake with it," Dean said sharply.

"Dean," warned Sam, growing more and more uneasy as he watched the man's fat hand none so nonchalantly disappear under the counter.

"What you gonna do with all those different types of weapons, huh? All that camping gear? You two some kind of deranged serial killers or somethin'?"

"Oh come on, man, we're just a couple of city slickers looking for some kicks. Shooting cans, that kinda thing," Dean offered in a humbled tone.

It was at that exact moment that the last box of bullets he had wedged into his jacket tipped out of the pocket and fell with a spectacular crash to the ground, the box splitting open and the bullets rolling across the floor.

Sam's gut seized in dread as Dean offered Paul a weak smile. "I was totally gonna pay for those."

But Paul wasn't buying it. He whipped out a pistol from behind the counter and aimed it squarely at Dean. "You robbing me, son? You and your sicko serial killing friend gonna kidnap some girl and do all kinds of crap to her, huh? Using my bullets? From my store?"

"No, not at all, Pops. You got us figured all wrong, man."Dean's fingers casually skittered towards his back waistband, where his gun was always faithfully tucked.

Sam groaned, getting a monumentally bad feeling about this whole situation. He eyed Dean, trying to discourage the reaching motion, which Dean promptly ignored.

Unfortunately, the shop keeper picked up on the motion himself. "What do you think you're doing!"

By the time Dean got his hand on the gun, it was too late. Sam watched in horror as Paul fired his gun at Dean, who jerked and let out a shocked grunt of pain. "Sammy?" Dean uttered a split second before staggering down to one knee, a blossom of blood blooming over his T-shirt right over his stomach.

"Oh god," murmured Sam.

Paul shakily aimed the gun at Sam. "You hold it right there. I'm calling the sheriff."

Sam acquiesced and put his hands up in the air in surrender, sneaking a quick glance down at Dean before he gave Paul his best sensitive puppy dog eye look. "Please, sir, this is just a misunderstanding. My brother and me we…"

"Drop the weapon, or I drop you."

Sam jumped at the interruption and was even more startled when he saw his father at the entrance of the store, a gun pointed at Paul Bunyan.

Paul looked like he wanted to protest, but then John crept closer, the gun pointed right at the man's head. "Drop it. Now."

Paul huffed and then let the gun drop to the floor with a loud clank.

John glanced down at Dean, his expression unreadable. "You alright?"

Dean looked up blurrily, holding his hand firmly against his stomach, blood oozing out from between his fingers. "Just a scratch."

John's face got that pissed look on it that was so often focused at Sam. He repositioned the gun so it was closer to the man's head. "Open the register and hand over all the money."

"Dad?" Sam muttered before he could help himself, his heart racing in uneasiness and shock. Fear.

"Grab your brother and get him out to the car," John said, his eyes drifting down to Dean once more before his hand tightened on the gun and stepped even closer to Paul, the gun practically flush against the man's head.

"Dad," Sam whispered.

"Now, dude, that's an order," John said sternly accompanied with a look that even Sam didn't have the gall to argue with.

"Yes, sir." Sam shakily clamored for Dean, whose eyes were glazed in shock and pain. He grabbed Dean's hand and hefted him up to a standing position. Dean yelped and his eyes fluttered, threatening to close. Sam slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Come on, bro, we gotta get moving." He could feel sweat and shivers rolling off his brother in waves. "Is it bad?"

Dean's jaw clenched in a visible knot of tension. "Let's just get to the car, Sammy."

"It's right outside," John offered as they walked past. "I'm right behind you." He tossed an empty bag onto the counter in Paul's direction, who was busy pulling money of the register. "Fill it up," he said to Paul, who looked downright spooked.

Sam chose to ignore the unbelievable sight before him and instead focused on getting his brother out to the car in one piece. "Easy. One step at a time," he whispered in Dean's ear as he basically pushed his brother out the door and to the car, which, true to their dad's word, was parked right outside. Sam pulled several more boxes of bullets out of Dean's clothes so he could get a better grip on his brother. The boxes fell to the ground, the bullets skattering all over the ground.

"Dude, I got shot for those! Don't waste em!" Dean said, pissed.

"Whatever, Dean, I don't really care right now," Sam said firmly, giving Dean the evil eye as he struggled to open the car door.

Dean's face softened at Sam's glare. "Never been shot before," he said through gritted teeth as Sam held him against the car while he opened up the passenger's side door. "Bet the scar'll be awesome."

Sam rolled his eyes in utter annoyance. "You have a bullet in you, Dean. It's not exactly a paper cut." He got the door open and then manhandled Dean into the backseat, much to his older brother's chagrin.

"Dude, I can sit shotgun," Dean muttered, his eyes barely focusing, his body trembling.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. "You're such a jerk." He settled in next to Dean in the backseat, offering his shoulder for support.

"Whatever, bitch," Dean grumbled.

Sam closed the door and a strange muted quiet settled through the car, punctuated only by Dean's pain ridden wheezes. The whole situation seemed unreal, like a dream or a movie.

What's more was that the damn Stanford application had somehow bunched up in his back pocket and was now poking him firmly, almost painfully in the backside. He didn't know whether to take that as a sign from God or from the devil himself.

Moments later, John yanked open the driver's side door of the Impala, causing Sam to jump in surprise, jostling Dean and his bleeding stomach in the process.

"Ah," Dean panted.

"Sorry bro," muttered Sam, clutching Dean tighter against him.

John settled into the car, tossing a bag full of money on the passenger's side seat and then hastily slamming the driver's side door shut.

"Dad?" said Sam.

John didn't seem to hear him. Instead, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment.

Sam cleared his throat, wanting some kind of acknowledgement. "What are we gonna do?"

John opened his eyes and swiped a glance at the bag of money. Then he turned and regarded him and Dean, his gaze strangely locked on the blood gushing out of Dean's stomach.

"It's gonna be okay," John uttered. "It's gonna be okay."

The statement seemed to ignite a firestorm of anger inside of Sam. "How?" he yelled as he pressed his hand against Dean's wound to try and staunch the bleeding a little. Dean grunted against the pressure, his head dropping onto Sam's shoulder. Sam switched hands to get a better hold on the wound and flashed the now unoccupied and very bloody hand at his father. "How is this gonna be okay?"

"Sam," Dean warned.

John's eyes took in the bloody hand and then he turned back to the steering wheel. "Just take care of your brother, Sam."

Sam glared at him in the rearview mirror, spoiling for John to meet his gaze. But John never did. Instead he turned on the ignition and sped out of the parking lot, leaving Sam holding his bleeding and quaking brother in his arms.

Sam glanced down at Dean's wound, his heart thrumming in fear at all the blood. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay."

TBC


	2. Dying for Love

**Thanks for reading guys! On with the story…**

**Part Two: Dying for Love**

Sam pressed a hand against the still bleeding wound in Dean's abdomen, the pressure of which set off waves of agony through Dean's system. He moaned in pain and curled against Sam for comfort, his hand fisting in Sam's flannel, the softness of the material soothing against his hand.

"Sammy, how's he doing? What's Dean's status?" John yelled from the driver's seat of the Impala, his eyes flitting up to glance at his sons in the rearview mirror.

"He's still bleeding, dad," Sam said, his arms wrapped around Dean's midsection. "We gotta get him to a hospital."

"No hospital, Sammy," said John.

"Oh right, I forgot. You committed armed robbery and almost killed a guy. Kind of puts a crimp in saving your son's life," yelled Sam.

"I did what I did for your brother, Sam! That guy would've turned us all in and we'd all be in jail."

Dean wanted to tell them to stop. The yelling, hell, the damn tension, was causing his stomach to throb even harder. But at the moment, all he could manage was trying to stay conscious.

"Being in jail is better than being dead!" Sam countered.

"Says you!"

"We're just gonna have to do this ourselves. We've patched up plenty of wounds before. This is no different."

"Dad, this is a gunshot wound! We don't have the supplies, not to mention the knowledge…"

"Damn it Sam, we'll figure it out!"

"Figure it out? He's bleeding to death and you wanna figure it out?"

That was it. Dean raggedly groaned and attempted to sit up, which as it turned out, was a very bad idea. He fell back against Sam, blurrily glancing from John to Sam. "You two mind keeping it down?" he said in a voice so weak it made him cringe. "Bleeding here."

John sighed loudly in relief. "Dean, how you feeling buddy?"

Dean nuzzled his head back against Sam's flannel, trying to do anything to relieve the pain pulsing through his stomach. "Swell."

Sam's hand came to rest on the back of his neck. "You're hot, man."

"Tell me something I don't know," Dean uttered.

"I mean I think you're getting a fever," Sam said worriedly.

"You mean a fever for more cowbell?" Dean laughed while his brother shook his head.

"You could be going into shock, man. Or you might be getting an infection. Course, you know dad and I are doctors and know exactly how to treat both of those conditions." Sam said, flinging the barb at John with a glare.

John tossed it right back. "Damn it, Sammy, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to help your son!"

"That's what I'm trying to do!"

Dean nudged Sam in the arm as if to scold him. "Guys…seriously…can you knock off the heavyweight fighting championship? At least until my blood pressure returns to normal?"

John met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, dude…I'm sorry. Sammy and I are just worried about ya." He looked back at the road and pointed to a motel up ahead. "We'll get a room, get you settled. Then I'll go out and get what we need to fix you up. Sound good?"

"Yeah, dad," Dean said.

"You with me, Sam?" John asked.

Sam swallowed loudly and only nodded in response, a suspicious sniffle popping from his nose.

Moments later, John swerved into the parking lot of the Bluewater Motel, the motion of which jostled the hell out of Dean.

"Aw hell," Dean panted, his vision going white.

By the time it cleared, the car was parked and John was out of the car and poking his head through the backseat window peering down at him and Sam. "Take it easy. I'm gonna get us checked in and then we'll get into the room."

Sam took an audibly shaky breath. "Dad, are we gonna be able to do this?" Sam's attitude was gone, replaced by something akin to fear.

John didn't hesitate. He nodded confidently in full on reassuring father mode. "Yeah Sam. We're gonna do this. Your brother's going to be fine. Isn't that right Dean?"

Dean felt a sudden bit of power surge through him. This was like anything else. Another mission. Failure simply wasn't an option. He simply had to tough it out. He couldn't let his dad or his brother down. "Yes sir," he said in as strong a voice as he could muster.

"Good," John said with the hint of a smile. "Be back in a few minutes."

John slammed the door, which shook the car, sending a burning dagger of agony through his body. He puffed out an exhale, trying desperately not to let it be a groan.

"Easy," Sam said, rubbing a reassuring hand down his back.

Dean could feel Sam's hand shaking as it traveled down his spine. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy." He relaxed a little bit against his brother and allowed himself to close his eyes for a second.

"Shouldn't I be the one saying that to you?" said Sam.

"Naw, dude, this has all been a test to see how you'd handle the pressure," Dean responded.

"Right. So you pissed off that shop owner on purpose, huh? Bullied him into shooting you?"

"Damn straight," Dean said. "Think of it as the Winchester version of a fire drill. Gotta keep you and dad on your toes. Make sure you're sharp." He sank deeper into Sam's embrace, his gut really starting to ache.

"You got us on our toes alright."

It was quiet then. Too quiet. The car was stuffy and hot and Dean felt dizzy and disconnected. He needed to do something, needed to focus on something if he was going to stay conscious. "What do you want to be when you grow up, Sammy?" Dean asked, struggling to open his eyes and keep them open.

"Boring," Sam responded, his hand snaking around to palm at his back pocket.

Dean chuckled without thinking and the movement felt like an ax to his stomach. It sent shockwaves of pain through his whole body, making him shiver. "Touché, little brother," he breathed out raggedly.

"Take it easy, Dean. Don't try and talk." Sam rested his head on top of Dean's.

"M'fine, Sam," murmured Dean, trying unsuccessfully to shrug away.

Sam sighed loudly. "Dude, just shut up, I'm sick of it! You have a bullet in you Dean and I know you're hurting. Why can't you let me help you and not put on this stupid brave face?"

Before Dean could answer, the car door opened and John appeared with a room key in his hand. "How's he doing? Let's get him inside," he said, reaching for Dean.

The pulling motion lit a throb of pain across Dean's stomach and he groaned aloud before he could help himself.

"You're okay, son. You're tough," John whispered, his voice wavering a bit. He sounded worried. Dare Dean even think it, he sounded scared.

"Will you stop saying that?" shouted Sam as he helped to maneuver Dean out of the car, taking as much of his weight as possible. "He's got a bullet in him for God's sake! How tough is he supposed to be?"

Dean's vision wavered badly as he was hoisted into a standing position by his father and his brother. He shut his eyes against the spinning sensation and steeled himself against the movement being forced on him, determinably swallowing against the bile and vomit that wanted to erupt from his nauseous belly. Sam was behind him, his hands gripping the backs of his arms, his huge body effectively pushing him towards the motel door while his father gripped both of his forearms, pulling him forward. The problem was, his father and brother weren't working in synch, resulting in him being pushed and pulled in a jerky motion that sent achy stabs through his belly, making him even dizzier and pushing him closer to the edge of throwing up.

"Easy dude, one step at a time," John said as he hauled him towards the door.

"He's doing the best he can," Sam grumbled.

"He can't just stroll inside Sam," John said, his tone sharp. "He's losing a lot of blood. The more time we take the more..."

"God, I know!" Sam interrupted. "I just don't think hurting him more is doing him any favors."

Dean couldn't take it anymore. He stiffened his entire body, turning himself into dead weight, not allowing either his brother or his father to continue to move him. "Stop," he gasped. "Please…I can't…just stop yelling. I can't deal with it. Not right now, okay."

John and Sam shared a guilty look.

"Sorry son, we're just worried about you. We want ya to be okay," John said, releasing Dean's arms and taking a step forward to open the motel room door.

"Yeah, man. We're sorry." Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's back in what felt suspiciously like a hug.

"Dude," whispered Dean, glancing back at Sam. "Don't be such a girl. Sick of you two screaming in my ear is all. I'm fine."

Sam couldn't hold back a laugh as he manhandled Dean into the motel room. "Right. You're fine. Says the man with half of his blood volume on his shirt."

"Still alive, aren't I?" Dean panted.

His vision grayed out as John and Sam shifted him down to horizontal on one of the room's beds. The sudden change in elevation wreaked havoc on his stomach, causing a flare of nausea to burn through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few preemptive swallows as he breathed deeply through his nose

"Alright," John said after Dean was settled. "Keep him calm while I'm gone, but more importantly, keep him alive."

"Where are you going?" asked Sam, crawling into the bed next Dean, one hand coming to rest on Dean's shoulder, the other ghosting over the bullet wound.

"I'm gonna find whatever I can to make him better," John said matter of factly.

"Make it fast," Sam said in a neutral tone. Dean could tell his younger brother wanted to say more, but was purposefully holding himself back.

"You keep him alive," said John.

"I will, sir," Sam assured.

John took one last look at Dean and then barreled out the door. A second later, the sound of the Impala vrooming up followed by the screech of tires echoed from outside.

As soon as the sound of the car faded into the distance, Dean slumped against Sam, his strength gone, his tough guy bravado impossible to maintain, especially with his dad was gone. Dean's whole body began to tremble and pockets of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip.

"Sammy, I don't feel so good," Dean whispered in a panic.

Sam ran a comforting hand through Dean's sweaty hair. "I know, bro. You're doing great, man. You're gonna be okay."

Dean fiercely shook his head. "No, no…Sam…don't…feel good…gonna…gonna spew!" As if to illustrate his point, Dean violently gagged, his body lurching upward. The motion set off a chain reaction of agony through his body that tore an uncontrolled groan out of him.

"Oh crap!" Sam finally got the hint and lifted Dean into a sitting position just in time for Dean to vomit over the side of the bed and onto the floor. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's waist and just held him, his sleeve soaking with Dean's blood, his own arm shaking with each tremor of pain or convulsive upchuck that vibrated off of Dean's stomach. "Easy, easy," Sam whispered in Dean's ear, his forehead coming to rest against the back of Dean's neck.

Dean puked and gagged forever, letting out a series of moans, groans, whimpers and gasps that made him sound like a stranger to his own ears. By the time he was sure he couldn't puke up or gag another drop, he collapsed into Sam, utterly spent and miserable. His stomach pounded in agony with every beat of his heart and the blood loss and vomiting had left him dizzy and even weaker than he'd been before. He felt powerless and helpless and maybe even a bit terrified, the thought of which filled him with shame. Coupling all of that with the fact that his little brother was the only thing keeping him upright and had just watched him throw up all over the place, Dean couldn't help himself. He began to cry. His face crinkled up as tears pricked at his eyes and flowed down his cheeks, his body and soul at its absolute breaking point.

"Dean?"

When he didn't answer, he heard Sam take a sharp breath of realization and then the hands that held him together grew subtly tighter and more tender. And god bless his brother, he didn't say a word, didn't even try and utter meaningless words of comfort. Instead, he simply held him and let him have his moment of weakness. The thought tore a soft sob out of him, pretty well devastated that his brother was having to do this for him.

He took a few deep breaths and slowly got himself back together, or at least as best as he could with a hole in his stomach. "Sorry Sammy," he breathed as he inhaled a gallon of snot up his nose and swatted at the tears still on his face.

Sam turned him and gently pushed him back so he was lying prone on the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with several towels and a glass of water. He pressed the cup to Dean's lips and Dean sipped, the water easing the dry sickly burn in his throat. Then Sam grabbed the towels, one of which he threw over the puddle of vomit on the floor and then other he used to apply pressure to the gunshot, which had steadily oozed blood during Dean's upchuck.

Dean moaned at the throbbing pain and gazed up at his brother through tiny slits for eyes. Sam looked downright pissed. He was shaking his head and his face was bright red. "God, Dean, look at you."

Dean swallowed thickly, his eyes closing. "M'fine."

"No Dean, this isn't right!" Sam sighed. "We shouldn't be doing this. You should be working construction or building cars and getting soused at the game every week while all the other guy's wives wink and blow kisses at you. And me, I should be in school, studying to be something where I can have an office indoors where they wear suits and ties and have air conditioning. Not this, man. We shouldn't be here!"

Dean opened his eyes, trying to ignore the trace amount of panic that soared through him. "Don't be so dramatic, Sammy. It's a bad day, that's all. This is our lives. We do good work. Important work."

Sam shook his head, his eyes welling up. "I'm not being dramatic, Dean. You have a bloody hole in your stomach and you're slowly bleeding to death in a cheap, crummy motel room in a town that I don't even know the name of. I don't care how so called important you think what we do is. It's not right! Hell, it's not normal. We deserve so much more…so much better than this!"

"Dude…stop bein…girl," Dean managed, the energy zapped out of him.

"You shouldn't be here," Sam repeated. "Mom would've never wanted this for us. Ever."

"Sammy," Dean pleaded, his eyes falling shut. "Stop talking, man…please…just stop." The only thing he had the energy to do at the moment was breathe and even that was becoming a struggle.

A few silent beats passed and then Dean felt the weight of the bed shift as Sam got up. He freaked, thinking that he had pissed Sam off and that he was leaving him. He forced his eyes open, not seeing his brother. "Sam?"

Sam returned into eyeshot a moment later with a wet wash cloth in his hand. He sank down on the bed again and gingerly wiped Dean's face with it. Dean let his body relax in relief at Sam's return, his eyes falling shut, the hot sweaty skin of his cheeks and forehead soaking up the cool comfort of the rag.

"Easy…try and relax," Sam whispered in a soothing voice. "Dad'll be back soon and we'll get you better."

"Mom'd…be proud…Sammy," Dean more mouthed then spoke. "She would."

"Yeah, Dean…mom would be proud," said Sam.

It was the last thing Dean heard before consciousness ceased to exist.

**TBC**


	3. Sins of the Father

**Thanks for reading guys! On with the story…**

**Part Three: Sins of the Father**

It figured that the one time John happened to have a crap load of cash to either barter with or outright buy the medical equipment to save Dean's life there was absolutely no place to do so. No hospitals, no aftercare clinics, no walk in clinics, nothing. Apparently all the human hospitals were in the next town over. But John didn't think Dean had that kind of time. In the end, he had broken into a vet's office and made due with surgical supplies used on Fido. He also took a few vials of what he discerned as antibiotics and painkillers, figuring that if a bunny could handle the dosage, so could Dean. A part of him thought about leaving a stack of cash behind for the trouble, but the practical part of him realized that the money might be able to be traced back to him. He figured the less crimes or suspicion of crimes he had on his record, the better for him and for his boys.

John's gut clenched as he threw the bag of supplies in the front seat and sped back to the motel, his fear and concern for Dean almost palpable. It was always worse for him when Dean got hurt. When Sam was hurt, Dean held them both together. When Dean was hurt, his safety net was gone. Dean was the rock. The glue. The Switzerland. The mom, so to speak. He could be always be counted on, so much so that John took it for granted. He hoped that Dean knew how much he did to keep the family together, to make everything work as well as it did. John was as good hunter as he was because of Dean, plain and simple. Dean figured the life part out, freeing John's mind to focus on the hunt.

And Sam, Sam was a good hunter, sure. But he was also the baby. By birthright, he was the one that came first, that needed to be protected. If they were in a presidential motorcade, John would be the agent walking beside the car, Dean would be driving the car and Sam would be the President behind the bullet proof windows. If something happened, John would stop the bullets and Dean would drive Sam to safety. The problem was Sam didn't like being put behind that window. Hell, these days he didn't even want to be in the motorcade. Damn stubborn kid. Wonder where he got that trait from. Certainly not from him.

He pulled into the parking lot of the motel and shut off the car and sat still, giving himself a moment to put his game face on. To try and save his boy. God.

When he had finished having his count to ten moment, he grabbed the bag off the seat and hurried for the motel room. He burst in and found Dean laid out on the bed, his chest pulsing with breath, bullet wound gaped open before him. Sam was next to Dean in the bed and holding his hand, coaching him through the waves of pain as if his brother were in labor. As soon as Dean noticed his presence in the room, he tried to sit up, which apparently was a very painful idea because Dean's face blanched to bleach white and he whimpered out a pitiful sounding groan.

"Dean, just stay still," Sam urged, easing his brother back into a prone position. Once Sam had Dean settled he glanced back at John. "Took you long enough. Your son's bleeding to death or hadn't you noticed?"

John saw the fear in Sam's eyes and knew that the boy wasn't really trying to start something with him. His youngest just didn't know what the hell to do, so he had decided to go with normal, which was to be a thorn in John's side and question every move that he made, sometimes it seemed just to question it. John could do normal. In fact, he desperately needed to do normal. It might be the only way they were going to get through this.

John let the bag of supplies drop to the foot of the bed. "Get started sterilizing the instruments in there," he commanded Sam, not acknowledging his son's outburst. "We're getting this bullet out now."

Sam sighed loud and long and then nodded, begrudgingly letting go of Dean's hand. He grabbed the bag, along with their own first aid kit and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

John took Sam's place on the bed and grabbed Dean's hand, gasping at once at how warm it was and how weak his son's grip was. Dean was a quivering mess. His face and brow were shiny with sweat and absently smudged blood and the lines around his eyes were crinkled in misery. His breaths were shallow and rapid, almost on the verge of panic. His brave little solider was terrified.

"M'sorry," Dean muttered, his eyes bright and sparkling with unshed tears of frustration.

The look in Dean's eyes turned John's heart inside out. "Don't." John squeezed Dean's hand and rested his other hand on Dean's sternum, willing his son to relax. "Slower breaths, Dean. You gotta calm down a little bit. It'll make getting the bullet out a hell of lot easier and a lot less painful."

Dean nodded obediently. "Yes, sir." Dean shut his eyes and swallowed hard, sucking air into his nose with concentrated efforts as if he were trying to collect himself. Then he opened his eyes and gave John a slight nod.

John lifted Dean's hand to press against his own chest so Dean would have something to focus on. John breathed in and out slowly, steadily and calmly, locking his eyes on Dean and willing him to do the same thing. "You're gonna be okay, son. And that's an order." And god help him, he knew if Dean had the power, he'd take the damn bullet out himself and heal his own body just so he wouldn't let John down.

Dean nodded and even flashed a tiny smile, a smirk lighting up his eyes. "It really is just a glorified paper cut, dad. Nothing I can't handle."

"I know," John managed, swallowing past a growing lump in his throat. He moved his other hand from Dean's chest to his head, tousling the hair there absently.

Dean looked away, awkward and unsure, the muscles in his throat jumping nervously. Then gradually, Dean's body accepted the touch, the comfort and he quit fighting the tender parental gesture. Dean closed his eyes, soaking in the ever so rare of moment of just being a kid getting comforted by his parent.

The bathroom door whipped open a beat later and Dean shrugged away from John. Sam emerged with their portable surgery center in his arms. "Everything's sterilized and ready to go, dad."

"Good," John said as he reached for another bag. He pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey and cracked it open. He poured a health portion into one of the motel's plastic cups and handed it over to Dean. "You're gonna need this."

"No arguments here," Dean grunted as he struggled to sit up and take a swig.

"Here." John pulled Dean into a sitting position and put the cup to his lips, allowing Dean to take a few generous gulps. John eyed the bottle himself, wanting to take a few swigs, wanting to not feel this moment and what he was about to do so sharply, but quickly decided he need the extra edge of nerves and adrenaline coursing through his veins. It could be the thing that saved Dean's life. Besides, if all went like he planned, there'd be plenty of drinking time later. Tons of it. Ideally with Dean celebrating right next to him. He'd gladly hold Dean's hair while he puked from the hangover. Anything would be better than what he was about to do.

He happened to catch Sam's eye then and it was like his youngest was reading his mind, knowing the exact thought process that had just taken place. "Are you kidding me?" Sam said in that pissy sanctimonious tone he'd adopted more often than not lately. "Your son's bleeding to death and you're thinking about having a drink?"

"Sam," Dean warned, his voice tight with pain.

John met Sam's eye and he swore the kid was staring right into him, possibly through him, seeing how weak he was, how many faults he had, how many bad choices he had made, how many he would continue to make. It wasn't fair. Didn't Sam know that he trade places with Dean in a second? He hated it when his sons were hurt. Hated it. From a hangnail to a concussion to a bullet in the gut. Just because he didn't always know how to kiss it and make it better, didn't mean he didn't care. He cared a lot. Too much.

"Get your brother ready," John said in a commanding tone that left nothing open for discussion. "I'm gonna wash up."

Sam huffed a little. "I could get the bullet out."

"No," said John. "You're going to keep your brother calm. I'm doing the heavy lifting."

Sam shook his head. "Dad, no, I…"

"This isn't up for discussion," John interrupted. "Now watch your brother. I'll be out in a few minutes." He stepped without considering the irony of telling Sam to watch out for Dean and headed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He gazed at his whipped and wiry reflection in the mirror and let his eyes drift shut. It was in his experience that it was best not to think too much in situations like this. It was better to attack the problem and do whatever needed to be done. Maybe it was the soldier in him or maybe it was because if he thought about what he was about to do he would go crazy. He was going to have to get his hands dirty on this one. Literally. With Dean's blood. He dry heaved once, twice, three times, bile and spittle lurching out of his mouth and into the sink. Then he reached for a fresh bar of the motel soap and turned the faucet on to hot.

When the water was steaming, John tossed a bit of water into his hand and lathered up with the soap, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing and then ran his hands under the scalding water, effectively burning his hands, not caring a bit, barely even feeling it. When he was satisfied that his hands were clean, he wiped his them on a scratchy motel towel and tried to block out of his mind what was about to happen. Then he centered himself and harnessed the nervous energy he always had before a big hunt so he could use it to his advantage to focus. John opened the bathroom door and strode out with purpose. With a mission. He could do this. He would do this.

He regarded his boys, who waited eagerly on the bed for him. Dean's eyes were glassy with pain and a slight buzz from the looks of things, but he also didn't miss the twinge of fear around the edges. Sam also had fear in his eyes, but his was cloaked in anger, an empty anger that wasn't so much focused on him as it was on the whole universe and how their particular lot in life sucked. In both cases, , no matter how much they tried to hide or deny it and be big strong men, Dean and Sam were both frightened little boys looking to their dad to make everything okay. And that's just what John Winchester was going to do.

"Let's get that bullet out," John stated with complete and utter confidence.

Twenty minutes later, the poise that John had boasted was slipping out of his hands. And so was Dean's life.

"Sam damn it, hold him!" John bellowed, one hand resting on Dean's heaving chest for leverage, the other locked into a pair of forceps that were currently buried inside Dean's bloody gut.

"Ahhhh!" Dean screamed, tears of pain pouring helplessly down his cheeks. "Dad…stop please…please," he panted, his green eyes pleading with him for mercy.

"Almost Dean. I've almost got it." John could feel the bullet with the forceps. Had been feeling that cringing metal on metal feeling for awhile. The problem was, the bullet was tangled up in Dean's insides and wasn't so apt to slide out seamlessly. Every time he tried to pull it loose from whatever it was tangled on elicited an ever increasing wail of agony from Dean and a look that he was sure had the power to kill from Sam.

John kept at it though, going after that bullet like he was digging for gold. He gave the forceps a firm pull and Dean let out a warbled sob, his whole body shaking. "Oohhhh god," he gasped, his head burrowing into Sam's armpit and his hand clutching at his brother's sleeve so tightly the material was beginning to shred.

"Damn it, dad, that's enough," Sam cried out, his voice cracking. John glanced up and saw that Sam's eyes were lit up with tears, his face almost as flushed and sweaty as Dean's. "He needs a doctor," Sam pleaded. "You're gonna kill him!"

John ignored him and looked down at the raw, bloody wound in Dean's abdomen, not ready to accept defeat. His eyes caught a glint of metal and his heart surged forth in pummeling relief. He could see the bullet. And if he could see it, he could damn well get it out, come hell or high water or whatever the hell else the world wanted to throw at him

"Hold him, Sam," John said as he brought the forceps down to the wound.

"Dad, no," Sam begged. "That's enough."

Dean breathed in raggedly, echoing Sam's protests. "Da…dad…please…no…no more." Dean's whole body was tense and trembling wildly, loose tears falling down his cheeks, his eyes roving around the room, unable to focus.

"Dean," John reached for Dean's unoccupied hand and grasped it in his own, squeezing tightly, almost maniacally. "Look at me…listen to me, son."

Dean took a few wheezing breaths and did his best to focus on John. "Ye..ah…d…dad?"

"I can get this bullet out," he stated firmly, glancing down at the wound and then back at Dean. "You gotta trust me, Dean. Just hold out for me a couple seconds more. Just a couple seconds. And this…this will all be over. You think you can do that for me, son? Please?"

Dean's bottom lip quivered and his eyes went bright green. He didn't look at all like he had a couple of more seconds in him. In fact, he looked like he would much rather just drop dead right there on the spot. But Dean nodded anyway, biting his lip so hard it turned white. "Sammy?" he gasped out, searching around for his brother.

Sam rested his head on top of Dean's and pulled him tightly against him. "I'm right here Dean. I gotcha."

John looked up to Sam and nodded. "If this doesn't work, we'll take him to a hospital. Scout's honor."

"Okay," Sam said.

"You were never a scout," Dean remarked with a mini smirk.

John used the distraction to go for it. He firmly maneuvered the forceps back into the wound, precisely catching the bullet and pulled. It met with a slight resistance at first and then it slowly started to give. Just slide, slide, slide…

"Ahhhhh…oh god…stop…stop!"

"Easy bro, it's okay, you're doing good."

Almost, almost, almost…

"Can't take it…stop it…ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Out. John pulled the bullet out and dropped it on one of the motel towels. Dean's whole body tensed up for a moment and then collapsed in relief, absolutely spent. He slumped back against Sam, completely unconscious, the only sign that he'd been a shrieking, quaking mess just moments earlier was the sweat still dripping off of him in rivers and the lingering shudders of pain that subtly shook his frame.

Sam wrapped his arms tightly around Dean's shoulders, giving him a hug, just holding on to him. John patted Dean's ankle and then stepped away from the bed on wobbly legs. "You think you can handle cleaning him up, Sammy?" John asked, not meeting Sam's eyes.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, still holding on to Dean like his and Dean's life both depended on it.

"Good," John said as he staggered towards the exit. He was suddenly claustrophobic. The room was too small and too hot and filled with the sounds and echoes of Dean's pain, the smell of his blood and sweat, damp with his tears. He had to get out.

"M'get something out of the car. Be right back," John muttered absently as he grabbed the keys to the Impala and stumbled out of the motel without a backwards glance. He crashed out into the night, letting the door close behind him and simply breathed in the night air, looking up at the stars. He took in the space, the peace, the calm of being outside, of it all being over, his body shaking with relief. And then he burst into tears.

**TBC**


	4. Behind the Wall of Sleep

**Thanks so much for reading! Enjoy the next part!**

**Part 4: Behind the Wall of Sleep**

There were distant screams and a tension in the room that Dean could feel even in unconsciousness. It was the ruckus of two wills clashing violently and without a third will to buffer, it was all out war. The voices got louder and sharper, the tension growing heavier, thicker. His dad and his brother. He couldn't make out what they were yelling about. He didn't have to. It didn't really matter. There would always be something for them to argue about. And he would always be there to intervene and back them off one another, to make sure they didn't take each other to places that they couldn't get back from. Having a hole in his stomach didn't excuse Dean from his duty. On the contrary, because of the added stress to his father's and his brother's normal cacophony of iron wills, it meant he had to be even more vigilant in his smoothing over skills.

As Dean forced his body towards consciousness, his side began to tickle. Then twinge. Then ache. Then burn. Then throb. Then pound with agony so thick he could barely breathe. It was like someone was kicking him with a combat boot that had a knife in it. The pain zapped away almost all of his energy, leaving no room to do what he had intended to do when he had roused himself. There was only pain. It consumed him, consumed his whole soul, consumed his whole being, until he was nothing else.

He also felt physically ill. Like the worst hangover he ever had coupled with the swine flu. His head ached, his stomach queased, it was hard to breathe, he was weak and dizzy. And he was cold. So cold so deep inside that a blanket or a heater wouldn't even being to touch the icy chill. He involuntarily shivered, which set of a chain reaction of fireworks in his aching belly.

"Oh," he moaned out in a quivering whimper, his eyes fluttering open.

The yells and screams that had roused him stopped mid-word and were replaced with dumbstruck looks of relief and then guilt by both his father and his brother. At least, that's what he assumed their expressions to look like. To be honest, his vision was a little fuzzy. So was his brain.

"Dean! You're awake!" Sam said it like he was a kid getting ready to open presents on Christmas morning.

"Sam," Dean whispered, his voice almost nonexistent. It was so hard even to speak. There was a weakness he felt through his whole body that scared the hell out of him. Normally, things like this were mind over matter for him. But this, damn, his body was betraying him and there was nothing he could much do to fight it. "Wha's…hap…"

"Shhh, Dean, just take it easy." John was at his side, squeezing his arm. "You're working on a pretty nasty infection. We tried you on some antibiotics, but they ain't working too well. We got Bobby coming with some reserves. He should be here any time now." His dad was staring down at him, his eyes wide, his jaw tense. His dad was angry.

"M' sorry," Dean said out of reflex.

John's face crumbled in horror. . "No…you…" He swallowed hard, looking ashamed. "No… Dean."

Sam's jaw tensed so hard Dean thought he might hear it break. His younger brother furiously shook his head. "It's not your fault, Dean."

"Of course it's not his fault," John retorted at Sam. "I never said that it was."

"But you were thinking it, weren't you?" said Sam, getting right up in John's face. "He shouldn't even be here. He needs a hospital. He spiked a 103 degree fever last night dad. We almost…"

"Yeah, but we didn't," John interrupted, shooting bullets at Sam with his eyes. "He got better."

Dean inhaled harshly. "Guys please…"

Sam ignored him and continued firing at John. "You can't just put a band aid on the situation, dad. Congratulations, you bought him a few hours before his stomach rots off of him."

Dean noticed a wild look in Sam's eye, like he was done holding back with John. If that were the case, then all bets were off. His body filled with a nervous dread, his head throbbing in dizzying pain and his lungs struggling to take in air. His stomach seized into a clench that had nothing to with the piece of metal that had formerly taken up residence. His throat filled with bile as his stomach sunk further into twisted agonized knots. He swallowed one, twice, three times, breathing through his nose, desperate to calm his stomach and not puke from the tension.

"Bobby's coming, okay," John responded. "He's got everything we need, end of story. Your brother just needs to hang on…"

"Hang on?" quipped Sam. "What is he to you, huh? Some of kind of metal super soldier? He's your son! And he's almost died twice in the last 48 hours!" Sam dug his feet in the ground and his nostrils flared. He looked like a bull about to charge.

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Could've fooled me!"

"That's enough!" Dean must've sounded excruciatingly awful because both John and Sam turned to look at him, giving him that wincing guilty slightly sympathetic look, like they were playing tug of war with someone that had two broken arms. "You've both made your point," he added, the verbal counteragent enough to neutralize both his dad and his brother with one raspy gasp.

John's eyes flicked to Dean's and then he looked down, concentrating on a spot on the motel carpet. "Dean…you just…stay put." John said in shaky, raw voice, looking in Dean's direction but not quite meeting his eyes.

"Yeah dad," Dean said delicately.

"I'm gonna go check on Bobby's eta…make sure we don't have any heat around." John continued, making a beeline for the door. "If he gets bad again, you call me," he tossed over his shoulder to Sam, not looking at him.

Sam merely nodded, not looking back at John. Dean had a feeling if the two locked eyes, blood might be drawn.

John awkwardly stepped out the door. Once John was gone, Sam took a seat at the foot of Dean's bed.

"Alone at last, huh Sammy?" Dean said in a voice barely above a whisper. He felt like absolute crap, suddenly feeling very alone and very much like a burden. It brought out a vulnerability that Dean would deny was a part of him. But it was there and it scared the hell out of him. He felt weak and helpless. Useless. Like he was no good to anyone. They might as well throw him out on the side of the road and let the vultures eat his brain.

Dean gazed at his brother through blurry eyes and his heart skipped a beat. Something was off. It was like Sam wasn't all there. The Sam that could normally take all the bad feelings away and remind him who he was and what his life's purpose was, wasn't standing there. It was like Dean was staring at a stranger that had not part in all of this. Sam was gone.

"Sammy…what…what're you doing?" Dean's voice wobbled fearfully.

It was like he could see into Sam. He didn't know if it was because he was so sick and had some sort of close to death psychic connection to his brother or what, but it was like Sam wasn't his little brother that needed his protection anymore. Now Sam was a grown man who wanted desperately to break away from him and his dad and more importantly, their family unit. Dean didn't know how or why, but he could feel it, like a sixth brotherly sense. The knowledge flooded his universe with panic as everything he knew and loved, everything he depended on, everything that held together the walls of his world came crashing down.

"What're you talking about, man?" asked Sam, one hand resting on his back pocket, the other set against Dean's knee.

Dean could barely breathe. "Are you…are you leaving?" Dean's throat tightened with panic. "Sammy are you leaving us?"

Sam tore his hand away from his pocket. "What? No!" Sam looked away for a split second before he plastered a flabbergasted expression on his face. It was in that split second that Dean knew that Sam was lying.

Dean started to hyperventilate.

Sam leaned over Dean, grabbing his Dean's face carefully with his hands. "Dean…calm down okay! I'm here! I'm not going anywhere!" He rubbed his thumbs down the sides of Dean's cheeks in a soothing motion.

"You can't leave me, Sammy." Every bit of hurt, exhaustion, weakness and sickness infused itself into a voice so tender and broken that it made Dean flinch. But it was the godforsaken truth and his mind, body and soul were so roughed up and raw that he couldn't plug the leaky floodgates of his insecurities and fears, and what he needed to feel safe and comfortable and normal in the world. And that was his dad and his brother and this life, as messed up and horrid as it could be, it was all Dean knew. All that he counted on. All that he was. And he felt like it was all disintegrating into a pile of ash and bone.

Sam pulled him closer, his brother's forehead nearly meeting his own in an embrace so intimate it could've been misconstrued. He would've jumped away in mock disgust and anger under normal circumstances. But at the moment, the closeness was reassuring. And very much needed. Embarrassingly so.

"I'm right here, Dean. You're going to be okay. You need to calm down and know that I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."

Sam's eyes were locked on his as he spoke and hadn't balked an inch at the statement. Dean wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it. God, he was practically hanging his life on it. Even if there was still that doubting insecure codependent part of him that told his brain that Sam was full of crap. He couldn't listen to those voices, not right now. If he did, it would kill him. He was sure of it.

"Okay," Dean more exhaled than spoke. He made an effort to get his breathing under control. He heard Sam even his own breathing out so Dean would have something to concentrate on to calm himself down.

"That's it bro," Sam said slowly. "You're doing good. You're okay."

The door to the motel room opened then and John walked back in accompanied by Bobby, who was holding a black leather bag loaded to the gills with supplies. Bobby took one look at Dean and his eyes about blew out of his head. "Damn son, what you do to yourself?"

"Side effect of the job, Bobby," John said quickly. "You know how it goes."

Sam glared at John, shooting bazookas at him with his eyes, but remained silent, for which Dean was utterly grateful.

Bobby looked from Dean to Sam to John and back around, nodding lightly as he seemed to pick up on the tension in room. "What brought you to these parts anyway?" he asked nonchalantly as he set down his bag and began pulling out syringes, bottles of medicine and a few packets of blood.

"There's a witch three town's over," John answered. "Snatches kids twice a year. We were trying to head her off at the pass. She hit early this year though I think. Already got one kid."

Dean's heart fluttered. "What? When?" he asked, his face burning with shame.

"Yesterday," John responded quickly.

Bobby took a step back, trying to disappear and ready his medical supplies, pointedly avoiding looking at anyone in the room as if he knew a pin had just been shed from a grenade.

On cue, Sam exploded in fury. "Wait…how do you…were you…you're working the case, aren't you?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sam, please, I saw it in the paper."

Sam shook his head in disbelief and that far off look Dean had seen earlier returned. With a vengeance. "Sam," warned Dean.

Sam's hand pawed at his back pocket before he threw knives with his eyes at John. "You're unfreaking believable, you know that! Dean's nearly dead and you're more concerned with some stranger and supernatural hag!"

Dean glanced in a panic at his dad that abandoned feeling returning and gutting him. Not to mention the thick slice of guilt and responsibility that accompanied it. "What about the kid?" Dean directed at John.

Sam gave Dean an incredulous look and then waved him off as if disgusted by the whole situation.

John regarded Dean with a soft expression, his voice low and quiet. "He's just missing, Dean. Might not even be the witch."

Sam shook his head. "I can't believe you. It's like you don't even care."

"Damn it, Sammy, I saw it in the paper! I didn't…"

"Yeah, sure you did," Sam interrupted. "You just happened to be walking by and saw the headline. That's such crap! You don't care about anything but revenge, dad, no matter who it hurts! Even if it means leaving your son to die."

"That's not true!" John yelled, his voice breathing out the fire of a dragon. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

"That's enough!" Bobby yelled, stepping in between John and Sam. "Both of you get the hell out of here right now!"

John looked at Bobby in angry disbelief. "What'd you say to me?"

"You heard me, Winchester. You and Sam, get the hell out of this room right now," Bobby shot back, not backing down an inch. "You got a hurt, sick kid over there and he doesn't need two jackasses going at it like a couple of bitches in heat. So I said, take it outside. Right. Now. It ain't up for discussion."

John huffed and puffed for a moment before glancing at Dean and then back at Bobby, his eyes narrowing. "Fine."

Sam took a shaky breath and blinked furiously, as if he was in disbelief at how far he'd just gone. He took a stumbling step backward towards the door, his eyes on the floor. "Sorry. Sorry Dean. Sorry Bobby." He followed John out the door with his tail between his legs, his hand clutching at his back pocket like it held the elixir of light.

Dean anxiously watched them both leave, feeling left behind and desolate. "Bobby…there gonna…I have to…Sammy he…I…"

"Whoa there, kid, slow down," Bobby said, resting his hand against Dean's chest in a steadying motion.

"But…"

"But nothing," Bobby said, reaching for one of his syringes. He filled it with liquid from one of the vials. "All you're gonna do is lay still and get yourself better."

"But I…"

Bobby took a cotton swab and dabbed at Dean's elbow. He expertly slid the needle in with barely a pinch and injected Dean with whatever was inside. "You ain't' gonna do either one of those hotheads a lick of good right now. You hear me, boy?"

"They need me," Dean whispered.

"Of course they need you, son. They need you alive."

"Bobby, I…"

Bobby put down the syringe and placed a hand against Dean's cheek. "Slow down, kid. Relax. You've got to take care of yourself right now. Let me help you. You're no good to either one of them if you waste away in this dive ass motel room."

"They're gonna kill each other, Bobby," Dean spoke, the words slurred and strung together as exhaustion befell him. "Something's up with Sam, I can feel it, and they're gonna keep going at it…and…"

"Let em," Bobby said as he reached for another syringe and another vial of medicine. "I'm sure if they try to kill one another, we'll hear the ruckus. Those two don't exactly do things quietly."

Dean couldn't help but chuckle as he sank deeper into the bed, some of the tension fading from the room and from his body. "No, they don't."

"If I hear punches, I'll go out and break it off with some buckshot to the ass," Bobby said as he dabbed Dean's other elbow with a cotton swab and slid the second needle into him. "This is gonna take away the ache you got in your belly real quick. The first thing I gave you was some amped up antibiotics. Should kick this bug out of your system. Got a few pints of blood with me too. You look like you could use a little refurbishing."

"Hmmm…thanks," Dean muttered, the drugs already hitting his system, his body going numb. His brain was still hammering away though, distant and fuzzy, but still, hammering away at him. "Bobby?"

"Yeah kid?" Bobby asked as he began putting up an IV pole to set up the blood.

"Are we…Sam and dad and me…we gonna…be okay?"

"Do I look like I have a crystal ball?" The words were sarcastic, but the tone and the expression Bobby flashed him was one of warmth and genuine concern. Of care.

"M' scared," Dean admitted, his mouth hardly able to get out the words. But he had to say them. He couldn't pretend right now. He didn't have the strength. He was terrified. Of their life, of his injuries, of Sam, of his dad, of letting them down, of letting himself down, of being alone. All of it.

Bobby nodded, seeming to grasp exactly what Dean was getting at. "We're all scared, boy. Me…Sam…even your daddy. It ain't nothing to be ashamed of."

Dean tried to nod, feeling relieved. But he was utterly spent, body and soul. His eyes fluttered shut and sank into peaceful numbed out oblivion.

**TBC**


	5. Sick and Tired

**And so we come to the end. Thanks so much to everyone for reviewing, favoriting, alerting and just plain reading! I'm thinking about turning this into a series. There are lots of things I'd like to explore with these characters pre-series and if you all are interested in reading, I'd be happy to write it. Truth be told, I'd love to see a prequel tv series to Supernatural with all three of the boys hunting and living their lives out. Anyway, we'll see what the future brings. Until then, keep an eye out for a one-shot Dean/Lisa h/c piece called Pinned that I will try and get posted before the premiere next Friday the 24****th****!**

**Enjoy this last part!**

**Part 5: Sick and Tired**

It turned out that Bobby was the missing ingredient in Dean's recovery. He had only stayed a few hours. Just long enough to make sure that everything he had brought for Dean was working and that Sam and John weren't going to kill one another. Or friendly fire Dean. Sam silently pledged to not raise his voice to John for at least a week. For Dean's sake. And maybe just a little because he thought Bobby might kill him.

John was keeping his distance. Ironically, since Bobby had kicked them both out of the motel room days earlier, they hadn't had a fight. Hadn't really spoken that much at all. It was like John knew that a line had been crossed and there was no coming back from it. In those moments, as the two had stood outside, staring at each other awkwardly, Sam realized for certain that he had to go to Stanford. He felt scared and sad and guilty and selfish. He didn't want to hurt his dad and he especially didn't want to hurt his brother. He felt remorse for all the people that he wouldn't be around to save. But leaving this life was the right thing to do. He had never felt more certain of anything in his life.

Sam spent the next three days watching Dean sleep. It was the strangest thing in the world to see Dean so still, to not hear his voice, to not interact with him. He knew that Dean was getting better and that his body was just forcing him into the rest it so badly needed to heal. But Sam didn't like it. He didn't like the grimaces of pain that swept across his brother's face whenever he tried to shift positions. He detested the paleness of Dean's skin from bloodless and exhaustion. He abhorred the soft moans and groans and occasional screams and grunts that burst from Dean's mouth as he reacted to the nightmares and the pain that wreaked havoc on his weakened state.

But mostly, he hated that his brother was hurt and with that, the realization that while this may have been Dean's first real major injury, it certainly wasn't going to be his last. It was only going to get worse as they got older, wiser and more daring, and battled bigger and nastier evils. It was the way things were, plain and simple. Dean would be hurt like this again. So would John. Sam didn't want any part of it. He didn't want to watch his brother or his father destroy themselves in the name of vengeance and righteousness. John and Dean could do whatever they wanted to do, were entitled to it, but it didn't mean that Sam had to stick around and watch. He wouldn't. He didn't need that kind of pain, either for himself or for his family.

Dean's head rolled back and forth on the pillow, a series of ragged whimpers spilling from his lips. Sam grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Easy," Sam uttered, watching as Dean's rapid fire breathing ignited the bullet wound in Dean's gut, his brother's forehead crinkling in obvious pain, a tortured moan gargling out of his throat.

"Come on, Dean. Stop." Sam grasped Dean's hand even tighter, his thumb rubbing the soft skin on the top of Dean's hand. The effect was almost immediate. Dean's breathing slowed and the lines across his face smoothed out. Within a minute, Dean was back to peaceful pain free dream time. For whatever reason, Sam's presence was the only thing that seemed to calm Dean down when he was unconscious and hurting. Maybe it was a brother thing or maybe it was Dean's need to always stay strong for him. But Sam being there, touching him, whispering in his ear, seemed to be the thing that was putting Dean over the edge from a slow painful recuperation into honest to goodness progress towards rapid recovery. Sam was happy to oblige. It was the least he could do for his brother after everything Dean had done for him. His whole life.

Sam knew his leaving was going to be rough on Dean. There was a small part of him that thanked his lucky stars that Dean had been down for the count the last few days. He wasn't sure if he would've had the courage to make this choice with Dean loud, proud and gung ho in his ear all day. But Sam couldn't be Dean's reason for existence anymore. He didn't need or he even want Dean looking out for him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate it. It was that he needed to grow up, be his own man, make his own decisions, make his own mistakes. He didn't want to live his life according to the gospel of John anymore. If Dean wanted to, that was his choice. Sam couldn't anymore. He hoped that Dean would understand. He even thought about asking Dean to join him, but he decided against it, first because he knew Dean would never ditch their dad and second because in reality, he needed to break free of Dean as well. He needed to be on his own. Truly on his own. At least for a little while. He wanted to see what else was out there. It didn't have to be forever. He needed a taste of the life that they fought so fiercely for the people they saved.

Freedom thoughts were riddling through Sam's brain as the motel door suddenly swung open, causing Sam to jump like he'd been caught watching porn. John barged through the door looking antsy. Sam didn't like the look in his father's eye. He liked what came out of his mouth even less.

"We gotta move. Heat's up the way. Won't be long before they catch up to us."

Sam sighed and looked down at Dean, gripping his hand tighter. "He's doing better. In case you wanted to ask." He didn't bother to raise his voice. There wasn't any point.

John snuck a glance at Dean and then swiftly looked away, almost like it hurt to look at him. "I found an abandoned house that should work for a few weeks. It's comfortable, centrally located. Let him get better and then serve as base of ops to hunt the witch."

"Whatever," Sam muttered, his hand reaching for his back pocket, almost wanting to throw the letter in John's face. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not til he knew Dean would be okay. Physically anyway.

"Look, Sammy," John began, "I know you think this is my fault…"

"He's going to be okay," Sam interrupted. "That's all that matters."

John nodded. "Yeah," he said almost as an afterthought. He approached Dean tentatively like he was he was about to pick up a baby for the first time. Sam let go of Dean's hand and shifted away, letting John take over handling Dean.

"Dean," John said firmly, placing a solid hand on his eldest's shoulder.

Dean flinched but didn't wake up.

"Dean, I need you to wake up," John said, his voice louder and gruffer.

On cue, Dean's eyes flicked open, followed by a grimace that spread rapidly across his whole face. Dean moaned in pain. "Wha…whats…whats…up?"

Dean's voice was like broken glass. It truly hurt Sam to hear Dean speak. Instinctively, Sam reached for Dean's hand again, giving it a comforting tug.

"Hey," John whispered near Dean's ear, squeezing his other arm. "I'm sorry kiddo…I don't want to do this to you…but we gotta move, Dean. Cops are on us. I found us a nice comfy house to hold up in for a few weeks."

Dean hesitated before acknowledging his father. "Okay," he muttered shakily. The hesitation along with the look of pure misery lit in Dean's eyes was a testament to just how much he had to have been hurting.

"Maybe we should give him something first, dad," Sam said, nearly feeling the pain Dean was in.

"No…just do it…get it…over with," Dean breathed, his jaw clenching tightly, his eyes not able to meet Sam's or John's. "Please," he added, his tone lit with shame.

"You got it, son," John said, nodding his head so sharply Sam thought it might snap off. "Come on Sam, let's get him moving."

Sam wanted to tell John to go to hell. He wanted to call the police and have him arrested and have an ambulance take Dean to the hospital. He wanted to scream at John until he was blue in the face and tell him each and every time he had pissed him off, let him down or pushed him too far. He wanted to shake Dean and ask him what the hell was wrong with him that he would put up with all of this and what was worse, accept it as normal. But he didn't do any of those things.

Instead, Sam did what he was told and nudged Dean into a sitting position, gritting his teeth at the winces of pain that his brother was desperately trying to hide. John tossed Sam a gray T-shirt and Sam pulled Dean's arm's out and had the shirt on his older brother before he had a chance to bitch about being able to dress himself, which they all damn well knew was an impossibility at the moment. Sam swiveled Dean around so his legs were hanging over the edge of the bed.

John had the opening to a pair of jeans waiting at each foot.

Dean groaned in protest. "Dad, I can…"

"Just go with it," John said, pulling the pant legs up and then putting socks on each of Dean's feet. "Your brother and I can do this a hell of a lot faster than you and with a lot less pain."

Dean grumbled, but was too out of it to voice much more of a fight. Sam weaved a grey flannel through Dean's arms while John busied himself with tying Dean's boots. Thirty seconds later, Dean was fully dressed and could possible even pass for human if you ignored his bed-headed hair and ashen face.

"You ready, son?" John asked, giving Dean's knee a tender pat.

Dean gulped. "Yeah."

Sam grabbed Dean's left arm and slung it over his shoulder while John stood up and grabbed Dean's right. Dean screamed as his body straightened out. The agonized sound didn't stop Sam or John's forward motion. Instead, it spurred them on to get the job done as fast as humanly possible. Sam could feel the sweat, the trembles, the misery, the sheer pain rolling off his brother. "Keep going, Dean. We're almost there."

They made it past the motel door and then it was straight out to the Impala, which was luckily parked all of three feet from their room. Sam opened the passenger's side door and shoved the front seat up. Then he took almost all of Dean's weight from John and literally hoisted him into the back seat. Dean collapsed into the corner behind the driver's side seat, his head coming to rest against the window, his eyes squeezed shut, his panting breaths fogging up the window.

"You alright?" Sam asked, resting his hand against Dean's flushed cheek. Dean merely nodded without speaking or opening his eyes, which in Dean speak, meant he was pretty damn fair from alright.

Sam backed himself out of the car and looked upon his father, his hand resting against his back pocket. "I'll go get us checked out. Prolly best not to put your face out there for everybody to remember."

"Prolly best," John said, looking at Dean in the car, his eyes turning wistful for a moment, like he was in a trance.

"Dad?" Sam asked, taken aback.

John pulled himself out of whatever spell he'd been under. "Yeah, check us out, Sammy. I'll pack up the car." John stared at him then like he had just stared at Dean, the spell returning. He looked like he wanted to really talk to Sam. Not just bark orders or shout commands, but have a real father son conversation. But he didn't say a word. He abruptly turned and walked back into the motel room, leaving Sam standing alone in the parking lot.

Sam took a last glance at Dean, sucked in a huge breath and then hustled towards the motel office, pulling out the letter of acceptance with shaking hands. He pushed through the office door with his shoulder, eyeing an old man behind the desk who looked like Burt Reynolds. The man looked him up and down, sizing him up. Like he knew Sam was up to something.

"Checking out," Sam said awkwardly. "109."

"Did you enjoy your stay, sir?" the man asked.

"It was a learning experience," Sam said.

The man typed something into the computer "You're square."

"Good." Sam spread the crinkled up letter out on a desk and with trembling fingers reached for one of the motel's pens.

His heart thudded in his ears. He felt dizzy. His throat was dry. He wanted to hurl. He wanted to cry. He felt like he was going to die.

He signed his name. Samuel Winchester. It was official. He was starting a new life. A feeling of calm spread through him. He had made the right choice.

Sam put the letter in the reply envelope it had come with and sealed it before handing it to the motel clerk. "Sir, you mind putting this in your outgoing mail?"

Burt looked at the envelope. "Stanford, huh? Good school."

"Yeah," Sam said proudly. "Yeah, it is a good school."

Sam was floating on air by the time he got back to the car. He was finally free. His own life could truly begin. As he saw fit. And nobody else. One month. That's all he had to get through. It would give him just enough time to ensure that Dean was fully recuperated. And it would give him a chance to say goodbye.

Sam clamored into the shotgun seat of the Impala and looked back at Dean, who looked like death warmed over. He noticed that John had already put the medical kit in the car, so Sam reached inside and pulled out a bottle of pain pills, palming three in his hand. "Hey Dean, you awake?"

"Huh?" Dean groaned.

"I got something for ya," Sam said. "Should make the journey a little less painful."

Dean opened one eye and saw the pills in Sam's hands. He reached for them without protest. Before Sam could find something for Dean to drink them down with, Dean had already dry swallowed them. "Thanks Sammy," he murmured before he wrapped his arms around himself and sunk deeper into the corner, his eyes drooping shut. "Thanks for everything."

Sam smiled sadly. "That's what brother's are for. You taught me that."

Dean gave him a weak smile before fading into completely into oblivion.

Seconds later, John joined them in the car, tossing one final bag over at Sam. "We good to go?" John asked, looking back at Dean and then at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, looking out the window at nothing in particular. One month. "We're good to go."

**That's All Folks!**

Few after notes:

The rundown house John refers to is the house that we see in the background in Dark Side of the Moon when Sam and Dean relive the night Sam leaves for Stanford. I figured that would work with my own timeline as well as the shows. Also, all the chapter titles are taken from Black Sabbath songs and the name In These Black Days is the name of a tribute album for the group. Little trivia for ya. Thanks so much for sticking with me to the end and I'll catch ya on the next adventure!


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